by Alan Carter
Justin Woodward had gone pale. He looked like he wanted to throw up. He was shaking his head slowly from side to side, eyes fixed on his favourite spot on the tabletop. Henry Hurley was furiously taking notes on his yellow legal pad. DI Mick Hutchens leaned forward, eyebrows raised as if hearing all of this for the first time. Lara was counting points off on her fingers.
‘So we’ve got you leaving the pub, drinks unfinished, just as Jim Buckley arrives. We’ve got a lengthy phone conversation between the two of you the previous day. We’ve got Freddy Bataam, your supplier, telling us that he’d been talking to you in the pub earlier that day and that you were going to, quote, sort Buckley out. We’ve got CCTV footage in the pub confirming you and Freddy Bataam were there at the same time...’
Unfortunately the camera didn’t actually catch them in conversation but it hopefully added to the weight of evidence.
‘We’ve got tabs of ecstasy and traces of crystal meth in your coffee van, and we’ve got Jim Buckley’s hairs on your jeans.’ Lara pointed the last finger in his direction.
Woodward stared at the tabletop. ‘You’re mad. This is not happening.’
‘Yes it is, Justin. Shall I tell you what I think actually did happen?’
Woodward shook his head again. If his answer was no, Lara ignored him.
‘You’ve set up a new life down here with your girlfriend – coffee and cakes, doing nicely, and a side order of eckies and ice for the cashed-up miners. Detective Sergeant Jim Buckley comes to town, a face from the past, he recognises you. The van gets searched and Jim Buckley doesn’t seem to find the drugs. Big relief. Then he calls you. In fact he did find them and he wants money from you to keep quiet...’
Woodward snorted and shook his head firmly, pursing his lips. ‘This is bullshit. The call from Buckley was about his keys. The only difference in the story is that Angelique took the call, not me, that’s why I was worried. I didn’t know about the call until later when she told me. I wanted to keep her out of all this.’
Lara sighed and pushed on. ‘Freddy Bataam comes to town to drop off his supplies. You tell him about Buckley, your lucrative little operation is looking shaky. He wants to know what you’re going to do about it. You still owe him money from the last drop off. He’s getting impatient, he knows some nasty people. You tell him you’ll sort it out. Later, Jim Buckley comes into the pub. Looking for an answer from you? Looking for his money maybe? You leave. You go home. You brood. You think about what you need to do. You work up courage...’
‘Fucking fairytales. I’m leaving.’ Woodward made as if to stand up.
Hutchens leaned across the table and gently pushed him back into his seat. ‘Nearly finished, mate.’
Lara was on a roll. ‘You return later. You see he’s still in there. You wait for him to leave. You follow him down to the groyne. He’s preoccupied, he’s talking on the mobile, having a smoke. He doesn’t hear you come up behind. You pick up one of those big lumps of rock they’ve used to make the groyne. You bounce it off the back of his head. He’s down but not out. You finish him off. Not elegant, not subtle, but job done.’
Justin Woodward was out of his chair, across the table, clawing at Lara’s throat. Her chair sailed backwards and they landed on the floor still locked together. Hutchens watched with interest. Mr Smooth-as-Fuck wasn’t quite as handsome right now. Spittle flecked his lips, a bubble of snot hung from the end of his nose, the bedroom eyes were bulging and bloodshot. His hands were tight around Lara’s neck, thumbs pressing into her windpipe.
Henry Hurley was hopping from foot to foot and flapping his hands like an infant duck forced into premature flight. A couple of uniforms burst through the door and looked to Hutchens for guidance. He unclipped a gun from the nearest one’s belt, knelt down and pressed it into Justin Woodward’s neck.
‘That’s enough mate,’ he said gently as if to his own son.
Woodward slumped. Defeated. He began to sob quietly. Lara Sumich shoved him off and set about regaining her composure.
Hurley was still flapping. ‘I really must protest.’
Hutchens handed the gun back to the uniform and turned to Hooray Henry. ‘You go ahead mate. Go for your life. Lara, charge Mr Woodward with murder and lock him up.’
30
Thursday, October 16th. Dawn.
Jenny Miller shuddered. This pink, pathetic gauze-wrapped figure hooked up to tubes, monitors and drips couldn’t be Stuart. His hair was burnt off the right side of his head. From there to about midway down his chest and right arm it was pinky-red, raw meat. The right ear was a misshapen lump. The right eye was gone. There was a smell in the air, not just of hospital chemicals. Cooking. Maybe it was just the breakfast trolley doing the rounds. He would require reconstructive surgery on the ear and right side of his face. Skin grafts everywhere else. The doctor said they were talking about months and years of treatment and therapy. Gradually he would begin to look halfway human again but he would never be the man he once was. Apparently the doctor was a world leader in her field of specialist burns treatment. So why couldn’t she make him into Stuart again?
Jenny had been at his bedside all night. He was out cold on a cocktail of sedatives and painkillers and god knows what else. She’d been offered some drugs too for her own pain but she’d refused. It wasn’t her way. She’d thought about their years together during the fitful night: the early days in Sunderland, Stuart still with the Force, and she in her first job out from college in Edinburgh, teaching snotty Sassenachs in Geordieland. Stuart was driven, passionate, and absent most of the time. Still, there had been plenty of laughs and good times, good friends. Then the Cup Final Murders, casting a shadow over the town, over their family, and most of all over Stuart. Like something deep inside him had been bludgeoned to a pulp that day. Shell-shocked, like Davey Arthurs’ dad.
Australia, a new beginning. Sunshine, beaches, flies. It was all strange and unfamiliar, yet not. They settled, they grew, they prospered, they moved to Busselton and the kids moved out. Graeme, their oldest, had conceded Busselton was a pretty little town but to him it felt like an open prison for retirees. ‘Halfway to Paradise’ he’d called it. To all intents and purposes she and Stuart were happy. Well, content anyway. Comfortable. Together. She’d taken that for granted until she nearly lost him just two years earlier: the chest pains, the heart scare, and now the pill regime. At the time she’d surprised herself at how much she didn’t want to lose him. It was a powerful feeling. She needed it back, now more than ever.
Jenny Miller looked at her sleeping husband. They were two weeks off their fortieth wedding anniversary. She prayed she would have the strength to stick with him through all of this. She prayed that she could and would be there for him, in sickness and in health, like she’d vowed. She prayed she would still be able to look at his raw, scarred face and see the man she married. A cold panic welled up inside. She was terrified. She felt already that she wasn’t up to it.
Davey Arthurs, the Cup Final Murderer. Stuart was convinced it was Davey in the newspaper. Then he’d had a phone call from Jim Buckley, a sighting down on the south coast. Stuart was fired up like he hadn’t been since she married him. She’d even got caught up in it, briefly. Helping him with his bloody googling, spoonfeeding his obsession. Then came the dreadful news of Jim’s death the very next day and Stuart packing his bags first thing Monday, a wild look in his eyes. Now Stuart had been given back to her, blinded, burnt alive and scarred for life. Not for the first time, Jenny Miller wished Davey Arthurs had been strangled at birth.
Mick Hutchens emerged from the town hall Major Incident Room into the early morning sunlight, flanked by Lara Sumich and some uniformed officers for colour and effect. Cameras swung on to shoulders, mikes were thrust forward. Hutchens arranged his features into something resembling gravitas.
‘This morning I am able to announce that a man has been charged with the murder of Detective Sergeant James Buckley...’
Lara Sumich smiled briefly; she was weari
ng a brightly coloured silk scarf around her neck that served only to draw attention to the bruises half-hidden beneath.
Hutchens hadn’t finished yet. ‘Justin Anthony Woodward has been taken to Albany and will appear before a magistrate later today...’
A question from the mob. ‘You arrested him previously and released him. What changed?’
‘New evidence came to light which will be presented in due course.’
‘Have Mr Buckley’s family been informed?’ It was Belinda Thingy from Channel Nine, solicitous and silky.
‘Yes, they have been informed. Sergeant Buckley’s funeral is tomorrow and of course our thoughts are primarily with his family at this time.’
Hutchens was winding up, he fielded a few more questions but his body language said time to go. The media entourage were left to do their stand-up pieces to camera and join the mass exodus over to Albany.
Tess Maguire slurped on her mug of tea and turned the radio off. Snak-Attack Justin, nailed by Hutchens for murdering Jim Buckley. Hard to believe, but she had long since stopped being surprised by what human beings are capable of. It went with the job. Hopefully the Hutchens circus would break camp soon and they could all get back to normal – tasering allegations notwithstanding. Of course there was still Cato and Flipper. Maybe she should phone him and find out how he was going – Cato that is. Melissa waved on her way out to catch the school bus, not exactly happy, more like determined, self-contained.
Tess waved back, ‘Have a great day. See you this arvo.’
The Waltons on Walton’s Mountain, almost.
Tess felt rested and well. She had arrived back from Esperance early the previous evening. She’d eaten properly, chatted briefly and non-confrontationally with Melissa and got an early night. She hadn’t worked out what to do with the powder-blue Getz yet. It needed to be returned to the hire yard in Esperance eventually. Koo and baby Johnny: what were they doing with a monster like Djukic? Should she warn Koo, tell her what he was really like? Tell her to get out while she still could? No, she’d had the chance to do that in Esperance and hadn’t taken it. Interfering in Djukic’s life would only prolong her own agony. She drained her tea and headed for the shower.
‘Congratulations.’ Cato meant it.
Mick Hutchens feigned humility for a second and then accepted full credit where it was due. He waved a hand magnanimously in the direction of Lara Sumich who was seated at a nearby desk, phoning ahead to Albany to double-check arrangements for Justin Woodward’s appearance in court.
‘Lara did a lot of the groundwork of course, a real diamond. She’ll go far, if I’m not careful.’
She smiled demurely in reply. Hutchens switched his benign gaze back to Cato. ‘Now we’ll be winding down a bit on that investigation. So tell me where you’re at.’
Cato did so, happy to be forced to concentrate on work rather than that spot where Lara’s neck met her shoulder. He hadn’t heard anything yet from forensics on the minibus or any more on Paddy’s Field and was still waiting for any developments from Mark McGowan on the interviews with Chen’s and Guan’s housemates. Travis Grant knew more than he was telling and was probably protecting his boss, Keith Stevenson, from further scrutiny. The contracts and bank statements seemed to suggest major financial rip-offs and exploitation in the mix. Cato would be chasing Hai Chen’s mobile phone records now he had the number. Last but not least, Guan Yu’s murder confession had been scientifically proven to be complete bullshit.
Hutchens sniffed. ‘It’s a fucking dog’s breakfast.’
‘Nicely summarised, sir.’
‘What’s to say you’re not just chasing shadows here?’
Cato pretended he didn’t understand. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Exploitation, unscrupulous bosses, missing mobile phones, bullshit confessions. Nobody gives a toss about Chen-bloody-thingo except you. Why don’t we just send the lying squabbling bastards back home and close the book on it?’
Cato couldn’t think of an answer that didn’t involve airy-fairy notions like truth, justice, right and wrong. He got the distinct impression that, job done and mission accomplished, Mick Hutchens was looking to clear his desk and ship out back to Albany. Cato didn’t want to hold him up and arguing too much would do exactly that.
‘How about I see the current action list through to its conclusion and if nothing emerges – and it probably won’t–’ he added to reassure his boss, ‘I tie it all up and close it by the weekend?’
Hutchens did some calculations. Today was Thursday, Woodward in court and in custody; Buckley’s funeral tomorrow. Yes, closing everything down by the weekend was fine by him. Cato didn’t push him on whether he meant the beginning or end of the weekend. He decided to use his initiative on that one.
Hutchens seemed distracted. ‘Are you going to the funeral?’
Cato hadn’t really thought about it. ‘What do you think, sir?’
‘You were his colleague, his partner, I’m surprised you’re asking.’
Cato nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll go.’
‘There’s a flight tonight at eight, I’ll organise a seat for you. See you then.’
Apparently dismissed, Cato got up to leave but Hutchens wasn’t finished.
‘That business with the exploding caravan, what did you make of it?’
Cato shrugged. ‘Bit strange. Duncan Goldflam seems to think it was probably a kosher accident. But why were they out there in the first place?’
Hutchens went into bad-poker-face mode. ‘Wild-goose chase according to young Fisher. Tess Maguire talked to him in hospital. Apparently Stuart Miller thought some bloke in the paper, an old murder case, could be our man Herman the Hermit. Miller spoke to me earlier that day, he told me about a case he worked on thirty-odd years back in Pommieland, same MO. Nasty.’
Hence the bad poker face, Cato guessed. Hutchens knew more about Miller’s reason for being there than he’d been letting on and he was seriously rattled.
Hutchens unfolded a nicely ironed hankie and blew his nose. ‘Anyway Fisher reckons the photofit looked nothing like Mather.’
Lara Sumich finished her call and strolled back towards the hall kitchen. No doubt to get herself another herbal tea, deduced Cato. Mick Hutchens admired the view for a moment then turned back to Cato, voice lowered. ‘Thing is, the Pom gets a phone call from Jim Buckley the night he dies, telling him this cold-case suspect is here in Hopetoun. It’s probably mistaken identity, and certainly coincidental to Woodward killing Buckley, but I don’t like loose ends. You neither, I imagine.’
They shared a look that went back years.
‘So how about you nose around for me over the next couple of days? If you need the time maybe we could let that Chinese thing run a few extra days if you like...’
Cato smiled. So was this what the testing and auditions had been about? Cato the lone wolf stepping in once again to cover his boss’s arse? Hutchens opened his desk drawer and handed Cato an A5 envelope.
‘This was recovered from Miller’s car yesterday. It had been parked at Fisher’s house. So much else going on, it fell through the cracks.’
Cato opened it. Inside was a spiral bound notebook.
Hutchens flicked his fingers at it. ‘I had a bit of a scan last night. Most of it’s gobbledegook but he clearly had a bee in his bonnet about something. You’re a bright spark, maybe you can make sense of it.’
Cato was not to be sidetracked from what he saw as his main game, Flipper. He struck while the iron was hot. ‘Maybe you could leave me a bit of support until the end of the weekend. McGowan? Some forensic?’
Hutchens pretended to think about it for a moment, then nodded. ‘Okay, keep McGowan, saves me looking at his sulky face on the drive back to Albany. I’ll also talk to Goldflam and his team about staying on a day or two.’
‘Thanks.’
Dismissed, Cato made a bee-line for the kitchen. It was a narrow poky little room. Lara was busy rinsing out a cup, the kettle heading for boiling point.
‘Hi.’ That smile of hers again, half-mocking.
‘I was wondering if you fancied catching up later?’
‘What?’
‘Later. A drink or something?’
Steam rose from the kettle as it bubbled and shuddered on the benchtop. Lara placed her hand on Cato’s.
‘Look you’re a nice guy and not a bad fuck.’ The kettle switched itself off. ‘And there and then that’s exactly what I wanted.’
Uh-oh. Cato broke eye contact and studied the floral pattern on Lara’s mug as she squeezed the last bit of her tea bag dry.
‘But when it comes to...’ she paused, ‘boyfriends,’ she looked almost apologetic, ‘I kind of prefer my own age group.’
She gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder as she squeezed past on her way out.
‘He’s gone.’
This was turning into a habit. First Riri Yusala and the aspiring date-rape boys, now this. Desk Sergeant Bernie Tilbrook had been next door to the Ravy Motel to check on the welfare of Billy Mather. Apparently nobody had looked in on him since shortly after he arrived. The room was empty and the bed didn’t look like it had been slept in. He was indeed gone, without a trace and with anything up to twenty-four hours’ head start.
Cato gritted his teeth and stayed calm, resisting the temptation to chuck his mobile out the car window. ‘Do you reckon you could get a couple of your blokes to drive around town? He might have just popped out for a walk or a bag of lollies or something.’ Cato didn’t believe it himself. ‘In the meantime maybe you could put out an alert on the network?’
Tilbrook sighed like he was snowed under and this really was the last straw. ‘Yeah I can organise that I reckon.’
‘Thanks Bernie.’